Dear Santa,Here's what I don't want:
No more presidents snickering like gormless fools when cornered or sitting slack-jawed like an inbred carny upon hearing calamitous news.
No more Fristing ("She certainly seems to respond to visual stimuli." ). After the first 20 minutes it can hurt.
No more nicknames ("Brownie meet Turd Blossom. Turd Blossom, meet Altoid Boy. Altoid Boy meet Balloon Foot. Balloon Foot meet Pooty-poot. Pooty-poot meet Dubya. Dubya meet...Oh, hell. That's me, right Poppy? Heh heh heh!"). Familiarity breeds contempt.
No more paperless trails. I mean, come on!
No more texting from the House floor. Even if you're really horny.
No more high-ranking, cranky, cagey, old bastards ("Go fuck yourself!").
No more known knowns, known unknowns or unknown unknowns.
No more "missions" accomplished.
No more national debt in trillions. That's paltry. Let's go for zillions!
No more secret prisons. Torture 'em on Pay-Per-View.
No more secret energy task forces. Burn clubbed seals on Pay-Per-View!
No more poppies from Afghanistan. The seed glut is negatively impacting the price of bagels.
No more Intelligent Design. Unless it applies to a cool wall paper pattern.
I could go on but that wouldn't be in the spirit of the season. See what you can do.
'Night.
- Steven Weber (formerly of family-friendly Wings, late of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip)
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